


Sun Cream

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Leopard Print Speedos, M/M, Modern AU, Pining but not more than you'd expect I guess, Smut, and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Logically, this was Grantaire’s fault.Anyone with even a shred of common sense would have known to be suspicious when they got a leopard print speedo on their birthday--even if it was gifted by Jehan, whose fashion taste was, on a good day, questionable.They live 500 miles from the nearest body of water, for cripes sake.And if that wasn’t fishy enough, a week later Cooufeyrac had called him--just to ask what he was doing the second week of summer break. Had it seemed inconspicuous enough? Sure. And Grantaire trusted his friends--more than he trusted himself--so, rather than ask questions, he had answered “You bet!” like the stupid idiot he was.And when Bahorel had asked to crash at his place for a night, Grantaire had let him. Again, no questions asked--because he was a good friend, dammit. He should have known that being nice would come back to bite him in the ass.He should have known that the next morning, when Bahorel had cheerfully crowed “Heya, you ready, R?” that Bahorel was not referring to life in general.---In which Les Amis go on a vacation and Grantaire refuses to let himself enjoy it.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	Sun Cream

**Author's Note:**

> There is a pun to be found in the title ur welcome ;)
> 
> Also I am aware that this is absolute garbage but here is anyway. (As Grantaire would say, "Whatevs.")
> 
> Someone please make me stop writing from R's perspective I'm not witty enough.

Logically, this was Grantaire’s fault. 

Anyone with even a shred of common sense would have known to be suspicious when they got a leopard print speedo on their birthday--even if it was gifted by Jehan, whose fashion taste was, on a good day, questionable.

They live 500 miles from the nearest body of water, for cripes sake.

And if that wasn’t fishy enough, a week later Cooufeyrac had called him--just to ask what he was doing the second week of summer break. Had it seemed inconspicuous enough? Sure. And Grantaire trusted his friends--more than he trusted himself--so, rather than ask questions, he had answered “Yeah, man!” like the stupid idiot he was.

And when Bahorel had asked to crash at his place for a night, Grantaire had let him. Again, no questions asked--because he was a good friend, dammit. He should have known that being nice would come back to bite him in the ass.

He should have known that the next morning, when Bahorel had cheerfully crowed “Heya, you ready, R?” that Bahorel was not referring to life in general.

He should have known to go to the gym more often so that he could have fought his way out of Bahorel’s headlock once Tammy pulled up in front of his apartment complex--who was he kidding, Bahorel had a solid foot on him. To fight Bahorel was to seek certain death. Grantaire would have done it anyway, though, if he hadn’t seen Feuilly through one of Tammy’s windows, seated beside Enjolras--who was, for the record, an extraordinary Human that Grantaire happened to be desperately in love with, but that sad state of affairs is currently beside the point. 

The point is that Feuilly never had time to hang out, much less go on an actual [mystery] group trip. (...why was the trip a mystery?)

So Grantaire didn’t try [and fail] to fight Bahorel. (Yet another example of being a good friend, biting him in the ass.) Instead, he put the bag Bahorel claimed to have packed for him into Tammy’s trunk--with a healthy amount of grumbling. No more than such a situation called for, mind you. (Grantaire should probably have been more surprised than he felt.) Anyway, this was his fault.

Logically, Grantaire should have foreseen this scenario. 

Unfortunately, logical was not a word Grantaire tended to associate with (that was Combeferre). 

That is how he found himself glaring at Bahorel from Tammy’s third row, where he was wedged between a very cheery Joly and a very pukey-looking Bossuet (carsickness. It happens to the best of us).

Grantaire lasts maybe fifteen seconds before talking.

“So, uh, forgive me, but may I be so bold as to ask: Where, in the fuckity-fucking-fuck, are we going?”

“We get it R, you like to say fuck,” Enjolras mumbles sleepily from the second row--he was justified (just like he always was) in his tiredness, it couldn’t have been past 3 in the morning.

“Ooh, I wanna tell him!” Courfeyrac should have been focusing on driving rather than yelling, but whatevs. “We, as a collective, are going to stay at Ferre’s family’s condo complex. At the beach. They’re giving us rooms!”

“For free!” Joly grins.

“Yup, and we’re meeting him down there,” Bossuet added.

“Okay, that’s all fine and well,” he says, “ but why does it seem like I am the only one who didn’t know about this? This whole situation is bordering on a kidnapping, and quite frankly, it’s uncalled for.”

“We kidnapped you out of love!” Jehan smiles impishly.

Grantaire wonders how Enjolras feels about him coming along. Just last Friday, they had ruined movie night when arguing about the toxic masculinity in Pretty and Pink.

(Sure, Duckie wasn’t entitled to Andie’s feelings, but he obviously was the most interesting and well written and overall best character.)

Grantaire leans forward so that he’s facing the blonde. “So, uh, how do you feel about this? Doesn’t this whole situation seem to be a violation of basic human rights? Not gonna lie, I feel violated.”

“Could you stop with the dramatics?” Oh no. Enjolras is using the Tone. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Grantaire stops with the dramatics.  
At least, he stops making his internal dramatics external. 

For five whole minutes, too.

But the more he thinks about it, the guiltier he feels. Enjolras didn’t like him, everyone knew that. But his friends were too great, and were forcing Enjolras to tolerate him. How could he, in good conscience, ruin any peaceful moments Enjolras might have had?

He could avoid Enjolras.

He could still have fun with everyone. He could. He would. (He wouldn’t.)

“Ya know, I don’t get the point of the beach. Personally. Why all the sand? And believe me, I have no personal beef with the sun on the regular. But when it’s blinding me and trying it’s darndest to give me skin cancer, things are less amiable. Just saying.”

Enjolras shushes him sharply, and this time Grantaire shuts up for real.

The inside of Tammy is mostly quiet. Almost everyone was sleeping, except for Bahorel and Feuilly, who were whispering quietly. And, ya know, Courf. Because he was, like, driving. 

Enjolras snores, and it is the most adorable thing Grantaire has probably ever heard. Enjolras in general was the most adorable thing ever. Somehow, Grantaire has gone three whole hours without thinking about how he was hopelessly in love with the guy--was that a record? Probably. Enjolras was almost constantly present in his thoughts, in some shape or form. 

Damn that self righteous god of a man. Damn the way his forehead creased while he was listening to others--like he was really taking time to ponder and reflect on what they were saying. Damn the flush that spread across his face whenever he was arguing with someone he disagreed with. Damn the way he clung to his stupid morals and code-of-chivalry shit like it was a lifeline. Damn his absurd beauty.

(Damn the fact that every time he sighed, groaned, glared, or bit his tantalizingly red lips, blood rushed to Grantaire’s groin. Damn the fact that this happened quite often.)

Who was Grantaire kidding, the only person damned was him.

Grantaire passes the time by listening to music, staring through the windshield, and trying his best to forget about how he was ruining Enjolras’ vacation in favor of everything he was looking forward to. Ultimately, he was pretty excited. He hadn’t been to the beach in years.

He resolutely ignores the filth of the gas station bathroom, before stumbling back into the van. He can barely register anything at this point--he’s running on two hours of sleep, max.  
In mere seconds Grantaire is falling asleep.

He wakes up--he has no choice, Courfeyrac had just yelled “Guys! COWS!” very enthusiastically.

A voice follows Courfeyrac. “Courf! Shut up! R is asleep.” The voice sounds suspiciously close to his ear, and suspiciously like it belongs to Enjolras.

Grantaire’s face is smashed a bit painfully against Tammy’s window. He peels it away. And there, right beside him, is Enjolras. 

“Howdy folks.” Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ warmth. Their shoulders are pressed against each other. It’s probably closer than they had ever been--they were always around each other, but Enjolras could never stomach Grantaire long enough to come into much physical contact with him. Until now, apparently.

“Grantaire! You're awake! So kind of you to join us,” Joly laughs from the passenger seat.  
Thank god Jehan wasn’t sitting there anymore. Whoever sat in the passenger seat was car DJ by rite, and Jehan’s taste in music was very similar to his taste in clothes--questionable.

“Look at the lil’ cows!” Courfeyrac repeats excitedly (who can blame him? Cows rock.)

For the entire ride, Grantaire revels in the warmth of Enjolras, in the feeling of his body, pressed up close. He now remembers why he rarely touches Enjolras. No matter how bad he wanted to, it was almost painful, allowing himself to be so agonizingly close to someone as wonderful as Enjolras, who he had absolutely zero chances with. He knew this, but some shameful part of his subconscious refused to get the memo--remaining head over heels. Which was very inconsiderate of his subconscious, but who could blame it? Enjolras was Enjolras.  
(Enjolras was right beside him, warm and tense and discussing the morality of religion with Feuilly. He was close. Grantaire was touching him.)

Make no mistake, Grantaire talks and makes a couple jokes about hell and all the other dumb shit he’s naturally inclined to do. (He also kazoos Abba songs for close to half an hour. That is to be expected.) But all the while, he sits there memorizing the feel of Enjolras. His firm thigh, his slender shoulder. Grantaire knows he’ll likely never get the chance to again, so he commits it all to memory--while resolutely forcing himself to ignore just how unhappy Enjolras seems to be smushed up against him (the guy was absolutely refusing to relax into him, even a little.)

Something shifts as they neared the beach. Everyone seems to be mentally straining at their seatbelts (Grantaire, personally, is perfectly fine nestled between the window and Enj.) The air coming through the AC is more humid and tasted like salt, and obviously there were palm trees and lots of tourist-y type strip malls. The amount of times Joly checks the gps goes from once every 5 minutes to at least once every 60 seconds.

The lobby of the hotel is clean and cool and smells like salt (everything smells like salt here.) 

Grantaire’s side is painfully aware of the distance between him and Enjolras. The guy radiates heat--which isn’t sparse this close to the equator, but still. 

Courfeyrac slings an arm around him. “Not too unhappy now, right R? Even excited, perhaps, for the mega-awesome fun vacay that lies ahead!?”

“Resigned to my fate, more like.” 

“Nah, you’re excited,” Bahorel elbows him, which Grantaire promptly returns, failing to hide his wide grin.

He then notices just how heavy Courfeyrac’s arm was. “Dude, you should have let me take over from Waffle House.”

“Yeah, you look exhausted. I would have driven some, too.” Feuilly adds.

“NEVER!” Courfeyrac cheers gallantly. “Let’s go hit that beach! I bought an extremely fashionable swimsuit just for the occasion and I am very keen on showing off the way it makes my butt look.”

“Your butt looks like it needs some sleep.” Grantaire says.

“My butt looks always-and-forever-sexy, thank you very much Grantaire.”

“I don’t know, it looks pretty tired to me,” chimes a voice from behind them.

“COMBEFERRE!” Courfeyrac surges forwards, promptly smothering Combeferre in a hug that promised to be bone-crushing. (Combeferre remains unalarmed--with Courfeyrac, a hug is never far away.) “Don’t even worry pal, I got a Starbucks in that one place.”

“That was hours ago,” Enjolras points out. “you, my friend, need rest.”

“Sleep is for the weak!” Courfeyrac would sound a lot more convincing if he hadn’t punctuated the remark with a yawn.

“Okay, well I have your room keys.” Combeferre holds up a handful of plastic cards.

Their collective mass began to make its way towards the elevators. There certainly weren’t enough cards for them all to have their own room. Grantaire didn’t exactly know where they were going, or who he was sharing with, but hey, he didn’t know most things.

“We only have five rooms, so one person will be alone.” Combeferre says in the elevator.

“When are we going to meet these so-called parents, anyway?” Bosseut calls from where he is smushed in the corner.

“They’re not here, they live in Illinois.”

Well, there was one less thing to worry about--Grantaire’s not exactly introduce-to-your-parents material.

“Darn it, I was hoping to see some Baby Combeferre pictures,” Joly pouts.

“I bet he was so cute,” smiles Feuilly, who had Courfeyrac dozing against him.

“We kinda sorted out rooming in the car, so you can have a room to yourself. This is all thanks to you, anyway,” Bahorel didn’t have room to sling his arm around Combeferre--the elevator was much too crowded--so he settled on nudging him.

Combeferre started “I don’t mind sh-”

“Wait, why don’t I know about this? I was in the car with you! Seriously, you guys gotta start telling me stuff.”

“R, you were asleep.”

“We forgot to tell you, but that doesn’t matter,” Jehan smiles. “All that matters is that you get to be my roommate!”

The room was big, and nice, and had a balcony with a view of the ocean. Grantaire looked out of the glass door and swallowed. It was so, so big. Gorgeous, but terrifying--like someone he knew. Someone he was infatuated with. (Enjolras. Like Enjolras.)

“I have nail polish!” Jehan calls from behind him.

“You know, I do need to spice up my look. And my nails are unbelievably bland, if I do say so myself. Which I do.” 

“That’s just what I was thinking!” Jehan says. “What are your feelings about purple? It will really compliment your skin tone.”

Jehan is halfway through when he pauses. “Okay, spill it. What’s bothering you?”

“Huh?” Sometimes Grantaire’s articulacy is astonishing.

Jehan shoots him an unimpressed look. “You’re making the Sad face. What’s up?”

“Oh. Well, Enjolras hates me, and I’m ruining his trip, which is not exactly ideal. So there’s that.”

“R, I thought we were over this.”

“He was so uncomfortable while we were sitting next to each other. I mean i knew he thought I was-”

“You,” Jehan picks up Grantaire’s hand and starts painting again. “Purposely annoy him.”

“I know!” Grantaire sighs miserably. “I know, I annoy him--I’m a complete asshole to him! That’s mostly just because I’m an annoying asshole, but--” he cut off with a frustrated sigh.

“But?” Jehan prompts, picking up his other hand.

“Like, it shouldn’t even be remotely surprising that he hates me--”

“For the love of all that is holy, he likes you Grantaire, really.”  
Ha, ha. Very funny.

Grantaire proceeds to go on one of his Enjolras rants. Nobody can rant like Grantaire.

That’s a dirty lie. Enjolras could rant circles around Grantaire if the topic was this cause or that injustice--or anything, really. Enjolras is a ranter to be reckoned with. Grantaire himself is more of a rambler (he is, an extremely good rambler. Nobody can ramble like Grantaire, and that's the truth.)

But nobody can rant about Enjolras like Grantaire can. No one can go on and on and on, (and on) because Enjolras is so good, and he cares so much. And he is awkward and hot-headed and fucking breathtaking. And he wants to fix the world, and Grantaire really can’t fault him for trying. Except that Grantaire does, because he is an asshole. He antagonizes and opposes every fucking thing that Enjolras cares about (this is an exaggeration, even Grantaire knows it), because then Enjolras has a reason to talk to (yell at) him, to make his blood fizz. The feeling Grantaire gets when Enjolras looks at him is worth Enjolras hating him.

Jehan sits through the Enjolras rant quietly pretending to listen. It was really very nice of him, as Grantaire has given the rant countless times before. 

Grantaire finishes his mini-speech just as Jehan finishes painting his second hand. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, R” Jehan replies--with a little too much sympathy for Grantaire’s liking.

“Why did you all feel the need to not tell me about this trip at all?” It had been eating at him (rightfully so).

“You know why.”

“You all knew I hated the beach, and just didn’t care?”

“We all knew that you convinced yourself you weren’t welcome literally every single time we planned a trip and made up stupid excuses like hating the beach to--”

“First of all, you’re wrong. Second of all, you’re fucking out of your mind.” 

“Okay, but tell me, how many times have you questioned if you were wanted on this trip versus when we all went to Canada?”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“Enjolras doesn’t count.”

Grantaire scowls. “I need to take a shower.”

“You asked.”

Jehan is a blanket hog, as it turns out.  
Grantaire can’t stop thinking about his friends, and how it stunk that they knew him so well.  
Images from the last trip Grantaire went on with everyone else keeps flashing through his mind. It had been unbelievably fun, but freezing, and Grantaire hadn’t shut up about it like the stupid dumbfuck he was. Their second to last day they had stopped in some bar and Grantaire had said something pessimistic--something that the universe would have been better had he not said it, something dumb and loserish and trying too hard--and Enjolras had snapped “You know, you didn’t have to come.” It had hurt, even though it had been totally warranted. God, why was he alive.

He tries to shove it out of his thoughts. On nights like this, where he can’t stop dwelling on the moments where he messed up so bad he wants to literally be wiped from existence, it’s particularly hard to sleep.

He eventually falls asleep anyway--the sound of the ocean is more calming than he would have admitted.

“Wow, those are really cool. I wonder who could possibly have given you those,” Jehan says, upon seeing Grantaire emerge from the bathroom, ready to hit that sweet beach (he’s actually planning on staying by the pool, but Jehan doesn’t really need to know that.)

“Courfeyrac is going to be so jealous. I have to be honest, I have probably never felt this fabulous before,” Grantaire poses. 

“You’ve never looked this fabulous before.”

Grantaire probably doesn’t have the ideal body for a leopard print speedo, but come on. No one can expect him to just have one and not wear it. (It wasn’t exactly his choice, as Bahorel had packed his clothes for him--which was pretty weird--but still.)

Grantaire did not get a chance to hole up by the pool, unfortunately, because Joly and Bossuet were pouncing on him. 

“Goooood morning, R!” Bossuet crows.

“‘Sup.”

Naturally, they take this as an invitation to herd him towards the beach. Grantaire subtly tries to escape, but then Courfeyrac is there too, and he stands zero chance against all three of them.

“If a crab comes anywhere near my feet, I am suing all of you.”

Grantaire almost just sits down on a far away lounge chair and leaves it at that, except that it is hot as fucking balls--as hot as Enjolras.

(Oh, and everyone needs to see his speedo, ASAP.)

“Okay, prepare yourself, lads!”

He takes off his tee shirt and jeans with a flourish, and more than a few winks, in Joly’s general direction, blowing a kiss for his grand finale. 

Bossuet cheer and Joly whistle.

“I still think my trunks are cooler,” grumbled Courfeyrac. (His swimsuit was teal, bedecked with sunglasses-wearing pineapple. Very nice, but let’s be honest. Nothing could top a leopard print speedo.)

Grantaire is halfway through building a sand sculpture with Joly--it was of Feuilly, who is being a very good-natured model--before deciding to re-sunscreen. 

He had just turned back towards the water to rejoin Joly, when he heard a squeak that sounded like a certain someone. He pivots, and yep, there is Enjolras. Grantaire would be able to recognize Enjolras’ voice even if he was deaf, just by like, the frequency of the soundwaves that left his mouth (God, his mouth) or whatever.

Enjolras rivals the sun itself. Even here, where the sun was clearly more comfortable.

His dorky rash guard is clinging to his abdomen in a way that simply should not be allowed.

“Hello,” Enjolras says, clipped (just when Grantaire has almost forgotten how much Enjolras hated him) and already a bit sunburnt.

Grantaire waves and lamely turns to go, when he hears Enjolras’ voice again. “I, uh, I have reef-safe sunscreen if you need any.”

Of course he does.

Grantaire shifted, made acutely aware--by Enjolras’ presence--of the layer of pudge that encompassed his torso. His face burns (even though he had just put on sunscreen.)

“Nah, I just put some on.”  
Banana boat couldn’t exactly be good for coral, but it’s not like Enjolras’ sunscreen--which was almost certainly overpriced--was actually making a difference. Enjolras, of course, would be willing to pay extra to potentially save a sea creature's life. So would probably all of his friends. God he was such a shitty person. Why did they even bother with him. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’ voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized that he had probably been standing there and staring off into space long enough for the situation to be awkward (as if it wasn’t already.). 

“I’m happy you’re here.”

Woah, that is not what he had been expecting. Like, at all. His heart swells so much that it can, in no way, be biologically possible.

He’s smirking before he can stop himself.

“I would be a lot happier to be here if there wasn’t sand in my crack.”

(What the fuck is wrong with him. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. God, What the fuck. What the fuck is wrong with him.)

Grantaire is still kicking himself hours later. While he’s finishing a drawing (of guess who.)

“That looks just like him,” Jehan says.

Grantaire instinctively tilts his sketchpad away. “Thanks.”

“I’m going to go watch Jaws in Combeferre’s room. Wanna come?” 

“No,” Grantaire responds, a little too adamantly.

“Come on, R. He probably won’t even be there. And what you said wasn’t that bad, any-”

“Oh god, stop making me think about it before I hurl myself over the balcony.” Grantaire glances out of the glass door. It was a joke, but now that he thinks about it...tempting.

“Please don’t,” Jehan calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

Grantaire is very nearly successful in trying not to think about Enjolras putting on sunscreen in the shower.

Someone knocks on the door right as he steps out of the bathroom. It’s Jehan, he assumes. Jehan could have forgotten his key, and the movie has definitely ended by now.

It is not Jehan.

It is Enjolras.

Who else? Ha. For a moment Grantaire had actually forgotten that the universe--or whatever the hell is in charge--passionately hates him.

“Can I sleep in here?” Enjolras blurts.

Grantaire sputters. 

“Look, I’m sorry, I understand. I can try to find someone else, or like, steal Joly’s room key, or something.” Enjolras looks nervous, almost.

“No, wait. Don’t go. You can, uh, come in.” Jehan can sleep in the hallway. Grantaire can sleep on the floor. Whatevs. Enjolras wants to sleep in here, so sleep in here he shall.

“Jehan was--” Grantaire starts, but is cut off.

“Jehan fell asleep in Combeferre’s room. And I need a place to stay, because I told Courfeyrac I would find somewhere else to sleep, because he has some girl in our room. So yeah, I came here. I’m sorry.”

“ It’s fine” Grantaire says, even though he honestly isn’t sure.

“I swear I don’t want to pressure you into anything , Grantaire.” Enjolras looks worryingly earnest. 

“Dude, chillax. I-it’s fine.” It is fine. It is more than fine. It is nowhere near fine. Grantaire is sharing his hotel room with Enjolras, apparently. What’s next, his parents call him to check in? He decides to switch his major to mathematics? His cat shows up, explaining that she actually ran away because she got involved in the mafia, and not because she wasn’t attached to him in the slightest? 

It is all equally plausible.  
The world is descending into chaos and madness.  
He is sharing a room with Enjolras.

Enjolras eyes him “You’re sure?”

“Yup.” he isn’t, but he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like putting on actual clothes in place of a towel. 

When Grantaire steps out of the bathroom again, Enjolras is sitting on the bed and watching some shitty reality show, muttering under his breath.

Grantaire tries to convince himself that this is normal.

He gets on the bed, as gently as possible, and tries to balance as close to the edge as physics will allow.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. The light from the lamp is making him glow, soft and golden--all smooth lines and delicate angles.

“I mean. Are you sure that you’re okay with, like, sleeping with me? In a bed, I mean. Because you seemed pretty unhappy just sitting next to me on the way down here. Which is fine, of course, I understand. But like, why’d you want to be in here then?”

“I... wasn’t unhappy.” 

Grantaire frowns, because. Um.

“Um.”

Enjolras breathes in and turns to him.

“Okay, I know I’ve said this to you since Canada. But I feel that it warrants repeating, because you said it was fine, but it has obviously stuck with you, because you haven’t gone on a trip since. Voluntarily. I know I make you feel unwelcome, and I am so, so sorry.”

Grantaire doesn’t really feel like saying anything. But Enjolras is blaming himself for stuff that is simply not at all his fault.

“It’s not about that, necessarily. That happened a year and a half ago, and it was warranted, because I complain an unhealthy amount and am generally shitty.” Enjolras looks like he wants to contradict, but Grantaire presses on. (He will not be patronized.) “And we don’t get along all the time. I know I’m a lot to deal with, and I figured that you guys all deserve a break. From me.”

Whatever response Grantaire expects, it’s not laughter. He goes red.

“You think you can be hard to deal with?” Enjolras giggles. “Grantaire, I am the least laid back person in the world. If anyone doesn’t belong on group vacations, it’s me.”

Grantaire feels himself relaxing, and smiling. It’s nice. And, Enjolras has a point (doesn’t he always).

Enjolras goes back to watching the tv. Grantaire just watches Enjolras--as stealthily as possible.

Apparently he is not that stealthy, though, because Enjolras turns and meets his gaze. (And there is that feeling. It ‘s indescribable, and accompanies every glance Enjolras spares him.)

The space between them is slowly shrinking. He would be able to process his thoughts a lot better if he wasn’t eye level with Enjolras’ lips. 

(God, his lips.)

Grantaire is transfixed, enchanted, spellbound. And then those lips are leaning forward, pressing against his, and he is kissing back, and making an embarrassing noise in that back of his throat, before it clicks into place.

He is kissing Enjolras. He is kissing Enjolras.

He is grabbing Enjolras hair (it is so, so soft) and pressing closer and being too desperate.

And, oh, it was so wonderful.

Enjolras probably (definitely) kisses everyone like that--with all the passion and fervor he has. Because this is Enjolras, and Enjolras does nothing halfway.

Grantaire doesn't care that it means nothing, that Enjolras is only kissing him like that because it’s the only way he knows how to. 

Because Enjolras is kissing him. And Enjolras is kissing him like that. That’s all that matters.

They break apart with a gasp, and Grantaire cannot keep himself from running his hands over Enjolras’ shoulders, drawing in a shaky breath. 

Grantaire leans forwards and seals their lips once more. And yes, it is just at fantastic as it was the first time, seconds ago.

When they break apart again, Enjolras leans downward, trailing his lips alongside Grantaire’s neck.

“Do you want to have sex?” he whispers against the skin.

Ah. 

That explained Enjolras in the car. Why he was here.

Enjolras had probably just been tense because of stress (he was always a bit rigid, anyway) he needed a quick fuck to unwind and thought Grantaire would be up for it.

Grantaire is up for it. So is his dick.

Their mouths are connected again.

“Grantaire?”

“Yes. Yeah. God, yes.” He noses against Enjolras’ jaw, breathing in deeply. He lets himself lick the skin, tentatively. Enjolras moans lightly, and he does it again.

Grantaire sucks and bites the junction of Apollo’s neck and shoulder, careful not to get too rough--to let his desperation show--to hurt Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” he says, low and breathy. He leans forward until they topple over and are both lying down, and he’s reconnecting their mouths and--

“Wait,” Grantaire says. 

Because sure, Grantaire has been pining after (and jerking off to) Enjolras for close to three years now. And sure, Enjolras has just asked him to do the exact thing he had been trying not to think about for the extent of that time. And sure, there is no way Enjolras will want to sleep with him after he says what he’s going to say.

But this is a good thing, a great thing, and Grantaire is physically incapable of passing up an opportunity to screw himself over.

“Yes?” Enjolras’ eyebrows were knit together.

Grantaire pushes himself up on his elbows, then away.

“Enj, I, uh.” he sits, twiddling his thumbs dumbly. Enjolras sits up too.

“I know you wanna like, hook up, but I can’t really do that without being... in love with you. I know that it’s weird and I’m sorry. I couldn’t, like, take advantage--”

Grantaire cuts off because Enjolras pulls him close. Which is weird. And he’s...smiling. Which is weirder. “Do you mean it?” Enjolras’ voice is hushed, and earnest once again.

“Mean what?”

Enjolras moves backward, putting a little more space between them. He falters. “Do you mean that--that you love me?”

“...Yes?” 

And Enjolras fucking beams (Grantaire had never seen light, never seen color, until this exact moment.)

“I love you too. I have for so long, and I was actually going to attempt to form some sort of actual romantic relationship before saying it--but. I do.”

Grantaire is gaping like a fucking idiot. (Grantaire is a fucking idiot.)

And he is a fucking idiot who is being kissed by the most wonderful man in the world--the man who just so happens to love him.

The kiss deepens. Enjolras is kissing him. It’s a little inexperienced, but so good. It’s the best he’s ever been kissed. Enjolras loves him. Grantaire still doesn’t quite believe it.

All he can do is kiss back. He kisses back, rough and deep, and allows himself to bite Enjolras’ red, perfect bottom lip.

God.

Grantaire slips a hand up Enjolras’ shirt, memorizing the feel of smooth muscles and soft skin beneath his fingers.

Enjolras sits up, straddling Grantaire’s hips, and slowly, (much, much too slowly)but not actually that slowly, pulls his shirt off over his head. 

Grantaire doesn’t even bother to suppress the embarrassing whine that rises in the back of his throat.

He reaches upwards, to touch, but stops because Enjolras is leaning down and tugging at his shirt and whispering “Please.” over and over again. 

Then they are both shirtless, and they are kissing. The bare skin on skin is so good. Enjolras moans into the kiss, his hands roaming all over Grantaire’s chest, shoulders. Grantaire melts into the heat, the touch, and then it is his turn to moan because there is a thigh pressing down between his legs. (Had he ever been this hard before? Doubtful.)

Grantaire rolls over so that he is hovering above Enjolras--who gave him the right to look like that--and starts sloppily kissing downward, down the planes of his chest, the slight dip of his ribs, his abs, his hips...Grantaire noses at the waistband of Enjolras’ pajama pants, then looks upwards, waiting.

“God, please,” Enjolras chokes out. Grantaire mouths at the tent of his pajama pants, licking around the shape of Enjolras’ stiff cock through the fabric. 

Enjolras is whimpering. God, he’s so hard. Grantaire grinds into the mattress. He pulls down Enjolras’ pants and boxers, cursing under his breath before he can stop himself. 

Because Enjolras’ dick is bobbing right there, in his face, leaking and flushed, and better than anything Grantaire had ever allowed himself to dream about. (Unless he was dreaming right now, which could very well be happening.)

Grantaire licks a stripe up the shaft, and then he has Enjolras’ cock in his mouth, because how could he not?

Grantaire has blown quite a few dicks (none of them as perfect as Enjolras’--which is not so much the dick as the person it’s attached to--but it’s still the best fucking dick in the world, to be clear) and he considers it one of the few things he’s actually kind of good at. 

He bobs his head, fast and sloppy. Enjolras’ hands find their way into his curls. (God.)

“Wait, come here--” Enjolras voice is strained, and he looks unfocused as he pulls Grantaire off of him, up until they are face to face.

Enjolras shoves his hand into Grantaire’s pants, tracing the shape of his throbbing dick, curling slender fingers around his balls. Grantaire groans embarrassingly loud. Fuck. 

Then Grantaire’s pants are off, thrown to the ground, and there is nothing between them. 

“Fuck--” Grantaire is gasping, moaning, writhing, because Enjolras is above him, and Enjolras is mouthing at his neck, and the soft skin of Enjolras’ cock is pressed to his own, and it feels better than anything should be allowed to feel.

Enjolras is grinding down into him, and he is helpless to do anything but clutch at Enjolras’ back and bite into his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the noises flowing from him.

The hot friction, the slide of Enjolras cock against his own, the noises Enjolras is making--it’s so good.

Grantaire snakes his hand downward, closes it around Enjolras’ cock, murmuring praise that he can’t quite hear. He presses a thumb to the swollen tip, and a glob of precum falls out.

The rolling of Enjolras’ hips quickens.

“God, R--” and Enjolras is coming with a strangled sob.

Grantaire works him through the orgasm. He watches in awe as Enjolras’ brow furrows, eyes squeeze shut and lips part.

Enjolras collapses, breathing hard. Grantaire is still staring at him, eyes wide. His dick twitches. 

Enjolras fumbles for Grantaire’s cock, and then Grantaire’s hips buck--the tension in his stomach is growing so fast, he needs just a bit...a bit--

He pulls Enjolras close and ruts into his hand once, twice, and he is coming.

Coming harder and longer than he ever has in his life--like he hadn’t ever come, not really, not until now.

They rotate, so they are on their sides facing each other, ankles tangled. Grantaire is smiling like an idiot, he just knows it.

Enjolras huffs a soft laugh, grinning, and Grantaire kisses him. After what seems like forever, they break apart, and Grantaire presses their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he whispers, because he can, and he does.

**Author's Note:**

> "Grantaire has a similar body-type to Joey Tribbiani," I say into the mic.  
> "NO ONE CARES!" The crowd yells.  
> "You're right," a voice says. And there, in the third row, is a very smug Enjolras.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'm sorry xx


End file.
